


what it means to be human

by lemqnie



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Bonding, Fluff, Gen, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 01:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20462483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemqnie/pseuds/lemqnie
Summary: Five times Hank calls Connor son and the one time Connor calls him dad.





	what it means to be human

\- 1 - 

  


“Hank? What’s this for?”

  


Hank peers to his side where he knew the android is, only a few steps behind him. And this always happens. Hank runs out of food at home, says he’ll go to the supermarket, have the android beg for him to come with, and then have said android badger him with questions Hank knows he could easily search up through whatever database was wired into his cranial cavity. 

  


Cranial cavity, holy shit. He’s slowly losing it. 

  


Behind him, Connor’s cradling—if you could call barely holding it with the tips of your fingers cradling—a stark green appliance that had a circular middle and thick handles on each side with seven glinting blades centring a silver ring. 

  


Huh. He didn’t know they still made those. 

  


“It’s an apple corer.”

  


“A what?” 

  


Hank sighs, halting his steps and pulling the cart back before it rolls across the aisle. “An apple corer. People use it to get the apple seeds out and have perfectly shaped wedges. It’s practical.”

  


“But you can just eat apples without having to cut them,” Connor rebuts, brows pulled together in thinly veiled disparage. 

  


“Yeah, well,” Hank says as he resumes the stroll towards the dairy section, “humans are lazy. What do you expect?”

  


Connor doesn’t answer to that, instead, he toys around with the apple corer before resolutely placing it back on the hook and joining Hank’s pace once more. It doesn’t take long, though, for him to find yet another thing to fascinate over and bring it up to Hank for him to explain. This time it was a precooked bag of zucchini noodles. 

  


Hank does little to mask his distaste as he explains. 

  


“But, Hank,” Connor complains, the bag hanging precariously between the tips of his fingers, “wouldn’t it be easier and more environmentally-friendly to just buy a whole zucchini and cut it at home in comparison to buying them like this?”

  


“Not many people have that luxury,” he drawls, barely even sparing a glance at the android. He was here to get his cheese, damn it. Where _is_ that brand? “Some people don’t have time to cook for themselves so they buy it precooked. God, where the fuck is it?”

  


Connor bounds to him, inching closer towards the open-air display of packaged cheese. His zucchini are already forgotten. “What are you searching for?”

  


“Cheese.”

  


“Yes, but what kind?”

  


Hank grumbles, “Aunt May’s Cheddar Cheese, Con, you know this. I always get the same_ fucking_ thing every time.”

  


If Hank had gotten dressed and made the trip downtown only to find out that the fucking thing had sold out, God knows what he’d do. Probably commit a crime. 

  


_Unlikely_, he thought to himself,_ Connor would never let him_. 

  


“Oh. Is it this one?” 

  


Hank turns to face him. Connor’s straightening himself up again but in his hands is that seven-pack bastard the man was looking for. He reaches for it and dumps it in the cart, but not before he takes a good long look at the android’s face. Was that uncertainty? Surely not. Androids can’t look uncertain, not with trivial tasks like grocery shopping anyway. 

  


“What’s up with you?” he asks. 

  


Connor blinks at him, mouth thinning into a tight-lipped smile as he shakes his head. The android takes the cart handles from Hank’s hands mutedly before he begins to walk.

  


“Hey! Don’t fucking walk away when I’m talking to you.”

  


“It’s nothing,” he calls out, already turning into the next aisle. “We should take this to the front. Before the shop closes.”

  


Hank narrows his eyes, scrutinising every single step the bot makes before he disappears completely. Just what exactly was he up to?

  


The conversation, obviously, happens during the car ride home. While he and Connor are experts at revelling in silence and do so during their free time, this silence is not welcome. Connor, for one, can’t stop changing his focus and flitting his eyes everywhere, hands clasping tightly on top of his lap. If Hank didn’t know any better, he’d say the android was nervous. 

  


_Unlikely_, Hank’s brain comments, _even deviant Connor is always valiant_. _Even with his life at stake_, he remembers bitterly to the stunt Evil Connor pulled in the Cyberlife basement. 

  


“Out with it,” he finally says, shattering the silence with a low grunt. “What’s wrong with you?”

  


“Sorry?”

Hank’s hands are tight on the steering wheel. The words will not come easy, he knows, but he’ll be damned to let this one slide. 

  


“I said, what’s wrong with you? You’re all fidgety. You need a routine check or something?”

  


“Oh,” Connor mumbles, “no. I don’t.”

  


“Tired?”

  


“Not in particular, no.”

  


“Then what the fuck is it?” Hank spits out, finally sparing a look at the passenger seat. 

  


Connor looks… small. Though the image shouldn’t shock him—Connor is small in comparison to the other police androids, his build is lither. For speed, his brain supplies—it stirs an old ache in his chest that usually returns twice a year. What, he thinks, it’s doing back now he has no idea. But he clings to it, the intensity of the pang almost leaving him breathless. 

  


Finally, after a beat of silence, the android replies. “I turned off my visual cues today.”

  


Hank’s foot eases on the gas pedal, his car slowing down as they make the turn to his neighbourhood. 

  


“What?”

  


Connor sighs, almost dejectedly, with his head resting against the window. “I turned off my visual cues. It’s part of the basic software androids are equipped with. It helps androids with decision making and recognition… among other things.”

  


Hank revs the car just enough for him to park by his, very, old-fashioned dumpster and fishes the keys out of the ignition. None of them makes the move to leave. 

  


“Okay,” Hank pauses, nodding his head before he settles his eyes on Connor. The android is still fixated with the view outside. “And?”

  


“And,” Connor starts, peering at his hands on his lap, “I’ve been doing it for weeks now?”

  


Connor fails to meets his eyes again and Hank rolls his own. He twists his body so that he was half out of his seat and the android was within arms reach. One of his hands on the dashboard, he pushes himself up so he can take a closer look at the bot. 

  


“Look. I’m a middle-aged man, Connor. If you have something you wanna say, say it now. Don’t beat around the fucking bushes, I’m too old for that shit.”

  


“I thought it would make me seem more human.”

  


Silence. Hank shuts his lips together, back returning to his seat. What did he just say?

  


Before Hank could even question him, Connor’s vomiting the truth out and with one glance at him, Hank knows he’s like deer on ice—scared, confused, newborn. 

  


“I thought. Everyone at the precinct have talking lately about how human-like androids are, and every time I think about it I can always tell the difference between an android and a human. Their eyes are different, their tones are different, their speech… we’re not meant to blend in, lieutenant. And you said so, yourself, last week. You said that androids are so much smarter than humans and I wouldn’t understand the story because I never had to work for the knowledge.”

  


“Connor,” Hank says, but it’s all futile. The android launches himself into another ramble. 

  


“But I want to! I wanted to know,” he gasps, and Hank can’t stop himself to compare this haphazard state of his to when he used to catch Cole do the same thing whenever his mother catches him redhanded. 

  


A thought strikes him then. 

  


Connor thinks he did something wrong. 

  


“But with it off I can’t even remember the cheese that you eat,” he mourns, tossing his head backwards, “and it’s so numbing to have to ask you all the time about certain functions of an item just because I’ve switched my visual cues off because you always seem to look so… tired of having to answer such trivial questions, but I thought that was what it meant to be human! All the trivial things, and…”

  


“Connor, for fuck’s sake!” Hank yells. 

  


The android finally halts his speech, waiting. Hank looks at him and scowls. 

  


“Breathe, for a second.”

  


“Androids don’t need to breathe, lieutenant.”

  


“Don’t get fucking snarky. Just do it.”

  


With an almost perfect impersonation of human inspiration, Connor’s shoulders lift for a second before momentarily pulling themselves downwards. 

  


“If it makes you uncomfortable, just leave the fucking thing on. You hear me?”

  


“But, Hank—Humans don’t have that…”

  


“But you’re not human!” Hank cries. God, he feels his hair turning even whiter if that was at all possible. Connor’s face falls before Hank jumps back into it. “And that’s fucking okay!” 

  


Seeming as though he had been slapped, Connor’s eyes are wide, watching Hank. Gawking. Hank groans. 

  


“Jesus Christ, kid,” Hank says, “look, if what they’re talking about at the precinct is bothering you, I’ll personally go find those bastards and tell them to stop myself. But I don’t care. Yes, I said that, but it was just a comment. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  


The android is still silent, lips tight, and Hank is near to just pulling his hair out. Weren’t androids meant to be intelligent? Why was it so difficult to talk to this one then?

  


“Do you mean it?” 

  


“What?”

  


Connor meets his eyes, and Hank can’t help but think to himself that they were weirdly glassy. The android flits his gaze down before they come back to him again. “Did you mean it? About me being an android.”

  


“What? Of course, yes, fuck. I don’t give a shit about what you are. In my opinion, you’re better than half the people I work with.”

  


Mollified, Connor’s lip twitches into a smile. “Thank you.”

  


Hank rolls his eyes, but there is no real heat to it and reaches out to ruffle the android’s hair. “You can be real dumb sometimes, you know that, son?”

  


Something in Hank seizes momentarily but when he looks up Connor is still smiling. 

  
\- 2 - 

“Connor.”

  


The android’s once distant eyes refocus and fixate themselves onto Hank. The man sighs. 

  


“Pay attention,” he says, pointing to the terminal on his desk. “There’s new bit of evidence down at the locker.”

  


“Shall I go get it, lieutenant?” Connor suggests airily. Hank waves his hand dismissively and that is all it takes for the android to push back from his seat and round their table, making straight for the locker. Hank doesn’t bother to watch him leave, knowing full well that the precinct has come to be the android’s second home since the Uprising. 

  


The precinct’s having one of its more calmer days. If he listens closely, like a sap, Hank’s sure he can hear the muted chirps of a flock of goldfinches or some shit outside. The officers around him are deep in their work, not a rarity, but certainly nothing he would have noticed in the past. Even Fowler’s briskly typing away on his terminal instead of opening his mouth and slandering his daily pick like the big bitch Hank knows he is. 

  


Of course, whatever shred of calm is ephemeral in his world. Even at home, he’ll have a good two minutes before Connor launches himself at his dog and they toss around the living room, almost knocking an admirable collection of his furniture into dysfunction. Here, it’s no different. 

  


It starts with shouting, but even that can be passed off as one of their earlier arrests waiting to be booked. Then, a thump. If his years working as a police officer has taught him anything, it’s the sound of a body hitting the floor. He’s on his feet before he even registers what was going on. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Fowler rushing out of his stupid cube room. 

  


“Anderson! What’s going on?” 

  


Hank doesn’t reply. It’s only when he side-steps the glass barrier and finds himself facing the calamity did he finally make a sound. 

  


“What the actual fuck?” he yells. 

  


Reed, that pisshole, has Connor under him, hands around the android’s neck. It didn’t even seem as though Connor was resisting, which makes sense after he reviews the scene that evening because _androids don’t need to breathe_, _lieutenant._

  


“Reed! If you don’t stop this behaviour right now,” Fowler bellows from beside him, hands coming up to rest on his big hips while he stares the both of them down. Reed, of course, did not seem to hear a word from the both of them and when Hank sees a flake of that derma layer chip off, he surges forward. 

  


Sticking his fingers into Reed’s shoulders, Hank forces both of his arms to jut out, sending the man a few feet back. 

  


“Connor,” Hank calls, hands coming to rest on the android’s neck, softly cradling it between his hands in case of any imminent fracture. “Where does it hurt?”

  


Before Connor can answer, Hank feels himself yanked back and he lets out a wheeze when he feels the edge of his spine meet the wall. 

  


“Didn’t I fucking tell you that I’d get you next time, Hank?” Reed sneers. Hank doesn’t bother to look at him, he stares at the floor where Connor lays. Except he wasn’t there. 

  


In a second, the pressure of Reed’s arm against his collarbone ceases and he watches as Connor flings the rat to the end of the hallway. The lights above them flicker when Reed plummets to the ground.

  


Connor stalks up to him just as Reed pushes himself back against the wall, eyes widening when he realises he was cornered. Connor doesn’t stop, instead, he continues his sluggish pace and halts only once he towers over the man. The android doesn’t speak but he bends down and uses a single arm to raise Reed until his feet hang loosely in the air. 

  


The sound of multiple guns cocking reverb in Hank’s ears. They’re aiming at the android. Connor.

  


“Connor!” Hank shouts, scrambling to his feet. He’s behind him in a beat but Fowler ruins it with his incessant warnings. Hank whirls at the captain. “Jeffrey, if you don’t shut your mouth I swear to god! Let me talk to him! He’s just scared.”

  


“Scared my ass. He’s holding Reed above air! Any second and he’ll kill him.”

  


“That’s why. Shut the fuck up. Let me deal with this.”

  


Fowler relents, somewhat, but the shotguns stay pointed. Hank has to calm him quickly. He’s sure if he had the android’s visual cues or whatever the fuck Connor calls them, he’ll see the android’s stress levels rise higher just as Connor said he saw in Ortiz’s android the day of their first interrogation together. 

  


Hank grabs at him, but his grip on Reed’s collar is unwavering.

  


“Connor. Don’t do this.”

  


Reed growls but the noise is cut short when Connor’s hand tightens just a fraction, the v-cut exposing his chest now scrunched up in the hands of one android. The detective chokes, but Hank pays him no mind. He rests a hand on Connor’s nape, gentle but firm. 

  


“He hurt you,” Connor bites out, and now that Hank is by his side he can see the dark that had manifested into Connor’s eyes. It was as if he was seeing Connor’s evil twin again, only it wasn’t directed at him this time. But, still, more machine-like than he has been for the past year since the Uprising. “He hurt you, Hank.”

  


No, Hank decides, not machine-like. 

  


It isn’t machine-like to protect your pride, or that of someone you care, your family. 

  


Family. 

  


That strange ache wells up between his rib cage again and this time Hank has an inkling feeling as to what has been causing it, but he has a job to do. So he puts his foot down and says, “Let him go, Connor.”

  


“He hurt you,” the android spits out, slamming Reed to the wall. The man groans and the guns shift slightly. Hank sweats. 

  


“I know,” he reassures him, hands still on the nape of his neck, “I know. He’s not worth it. I’m fine, Con.”

  


Slowly, he sees the trepidation ebb from his eyes but his brows and jaws were still locked in place. Hank sighs.

  


“That’s enough, son. Let him go.”

  


In a second, Reed is sputtering on the ground, gasping for air. Chen rushes to his side, she shoots Connor a glare, one that he didn’t respond to, and hauls her friend up. Reed doesn’t lift his face once as Chen escorts him out of the hallway. 

  


One by one, Hank can hear the sound of his fellow officers leave the scene save for Fowler who keeps his eyes on their backs like a hawk. Hank turns around and motions him to leave but Fowler scowls.

  


“You’ll do well to remember that I’m your captain, Anderson,” he warns menacingly. Hank watches him go before he tends to Connor. When he faces the android, that look of anger is flushed away, replacing it a down-turned set of brows. 

  


“Hank,” he pleads, “Hank. He was hurting you.”

  


“I know.”

  


“He threw you against the wall when you had back problems!”

  


“I know,” he mutters. “But it’s fine. Alright? Reed’s a nasty dick when he wants to be. I was more worried for him. To be in a fight with you like that.”

  


At this, Connor scoffs. He rolls one shoulder before he manages to look at Hank. “That was hardly a fight, lieutenant. Detective Reed assaulted me and I laid still until you came.”

  


“You’re right,” Hank says, grinning as he claps one big hand to the android’s back. “Hardly a fight. God. Sure. Whatever. Fuck! I need a burger.”

  


“Chicken feed again, lieutenant?” 

  


“I burned all the calories I consumed this morning from that throw. Spare this old man an inch of your mercy, will you?” 

  


Connor doesn’t get the joke, but it’s okay. Hank thinks he’s starting to understand what this means. And if that’s the reason he lets Connor play with the ketchup smear on his burger pack then so be it. 

  


-3- 

  


“It went that way!” 

  


Connor takes off in a flash, leaving Hank staring at the empty space he occupied just mere seconds ago. He’s not quick enough to run after Connor, but he catches sight of the android making a rather sharp turn around the corner into a dark alleyway before he vanishes. 

  


The storm blurs his vision and he curses, feeling the wetness seep through the fibres woven into his jacket. With a loud crack of thunder, Hank starts towards where he saw Connor last but a large hand stops him. 

  


“You won’t catch them in time,” Chris Miller shouts, “go around this way. It’s heading for the freeway!” 

  


Hank doesn’t question it. His feet are already moving before he spares the second to command them. He pushes past the crowd of officers lounging by their cruisers, doesn’t note the tired pull of their eyebrows with his heart matching the whip of the thunder in the skies. 

  


The streets are deserted save for the occasional parked car. He makes the turn, nearly jumping into a steep puddle, and runs straight into another open road. 

  


It’s a residential area, he realises. They were called in because there had been another homicide case, their eleventh android abuse case this month. After reading the stupid file, Hank denies the case for the first time in his career. Fowler looked ready to tear him limb-to-limb, and it was Connor who assures the big oaf that they were going to look into it. 

  


Hank didn’t speak a word to him the entire ride to the crime scene, nor did he want to. There was a storm brewing in his own head, much darker than the one outside his car and he wonders briefly if androids were aware of human stress levels as they were of each other. He was sure if they had been equipped with such intelligence, Connor wouldn’t have insisted they went. 

  


Truth be told, Hank didn’t want to even step into the fucking apartment because he knows Connor saw the fresh footprints that indicated their criminal was still there, which most likely meant that they might be persuaded into a run and then a pursuit and the goddamn paperwork… 

  


_No, it’s more than that_, he thinks as he makes another turn into a dimly-lit alley. _It’s about Connor_. 

  


The past year following the Uprising slowly brought in more and more android hate-crime cases, and it was always given to them. The one pair in the precinct with an android. 

  


He knows, inside, that Connor’s more than capable of defending himself. But with the rise in these cases, each case seems more malicious and violent than the last. This one… 

  


He didn’t even want to see the android. The criminal had torn its limb apart, only the head remains connected to the body. Its derma layer was switched off, leaving the white chassis open for everyone to see the burn marks and open cuts the perpetrator administered. 

  


Connor was as stoic as ever, but Hank knows. There’s fear in his system, and he doesn’t need Cyberlife’s fancy tech to tell that his android is scared.

  


He’s about to cross the fence when he sees them. Connor and the human wrestling in the mud, right by the holo-sign warning them to keep off the highway road. Cars are speeding down the highway, almost becoming indistinguishable blurs in the rain. 

  


“Connor!” Hank calls out, jumping across the barrier and onto the wet grass. There’s a sickening squelch under his boots and he can already feel his toes becoming wetter. Hank drags his foot out of the mud and brings it down an inch forward. 

  


The human decides he has had enough and shoves Connor off him, the android tumbles into the mud. Without hesitating, the killer lifts himself across the barrier, disrupting the holo-sign, and makes a dash for it. Connor is on his feet, but before he could even step forward, Hank yanks him back. 

  


“You will not! Connor, you hear me? You’re not fucking going after that psycho!”

  


Connor struggles against him, but Hank knows there’s no real pull to it. If he wanted to, Connor could kick him and send him propelling backwards for, at least, a good fifty feet. 

  


Hank tightens his grasp around Connor’s collar. “No!” 

  


“He’s getting away, Hank,” Connor growls, his arms ready to push Hank off. Hank knows he won’t. He’s sure. 

  


Right?

  


The storm breaks down harder than ever, and with the whines of car tires in the rain, Hank pulls at Connor with the last bit of stamina he has left. 

  


“Son,” he begs, “please.”

  


Connor slumps.

  


He doesn’t speak to Hank during the car ride back to the precinct, or the one home. He doesn’t speak to Hank the next morning either, but there’s a warm plate of breakfast waiting for him in the kitchen. And Hank knows they’re okay. He’d rather have Connor shun him for a good few days than having a car crash into him on the freeway. 

  
\- 4 - 

  


It’s Fowler's twentieth wedding anniversary, not that Hank keeps count. The Captain had invited the entire precinct to his home with the promise of barbecue and liquor, it was almost a too-good invite to ignore. He knows because even Reed shows up, Tina on his arm as they make polite talk with Fowler’s wife, Martha. 

  


“Seems like a party.”

  


“Sure,” Hank agrees, eyeing the crowd surrounding Jeffrey who was attending to the grill. “Hold on, let me go congratulate the fucker.”

  


“I’ll come with you,” Connor says, brown eyes kind. Hank smiles and ruffles his hair. 

  


“Nah, why don’t you go get acquainted with Martha over there? Maybe she’ll let you pet their dog.”

  


“They have a dog?”

  


“Sure do. Go ahead, kiddo. I’ll get you in a second.”

  


When he sees Martha welcome Connor with a warm smile and Reed excuse himself, he finally lets himself walk into the backyard. 

  


It’s an even livelier party than the front of the house, he notices. There are paper lanterns placed carefully on the grounds as to illuminate every inch of the garden without doing too much and a polite murmur between the officers, Lewis and Person, stationed by the picnic table clothed with a checkered cover. 

  


“Well, if it isn’t grumpy old Anderson,” Jeffrey teases, flipping a burger with his left hand. Hank lets out a low chuckle. 

  


“Figured I’d stop by, at least for the free food.”

  


“Fucker,” Jeffrey says, “when did you arrive?”

  


Hank steps to his side and the few officers around them, namely Wilson and Brown, excuse themselves to catch Reed coming down from the patio with Chen. Hank watches them for a while before he returns to his friend. 

  


“Just parked the car. I haven’t said hi to Martha though.”

  


“You should. You know, she likes you.”

  


“Yeah, yeah,” Hank says, waving a hand dismissively as he steps away. “Don’t burn the meat, it’s the only reason I’m here.”

Jeffrey doesn’t even turn around to flip him off. 

  


Hank has known Jeffrey since they were classmates so, naturally, he has seen Martha grow into the radiant woman she is today. He has been her guest more times for Thanksgiving and other festivities than he would like to admit, and for that, he could never thank her enough for not leaving him alone to wallow in his loneliness. 

  


She’s standing, watching over Connor who was sitting promptly on the white chaise by the fireplace as the Ricky, the five-year-old dog, nip at his hands. The android seems to hear him enter the lounge because without even sparing a glance, Connor calls for him.

  


“He has the most soulful eyes I’ve ever seen, Hank,” Connor says. Hank ignores the fact that he sounds like he’s about to cry and pats his back instead. Martha laughs. 

  


“Hank, it is so lovely to see you.”

  


Hank smiles warmly at her, reaching out for a hug which she accepts easily. “You look wonderful, Martha. New dress?”

  


“Oh, yes. Jeffrey says he bought it for me just last Sunday. The red is so bright I thought I might look like one of those road signs in the old days.”

  


“Nonsense,” Hank laughs with her, “you are too beautiful.”

  


Connor seems to have blocked out their conversation entirely because he lifts himself to his feet and has made it a mission to follow Ricky wherever he’s butting his nose into, including the corner of the room. 

  


Martha doesn’t reply, and it takes Hank a while to realise that she’s openly staring at him. Something passes in her eyes and she reaches one warm arm and rests it against his shoulder. 

  


“You have changed,” she whispers. “I can see it. Maybe not fully healed, and maybe you will never fully heal, but you’re much better off now, aren’t you?”

  


His eyes flit away from her dark almond ones to find Connor curiously tapping at the aquarium by the window that Ricky has decided to rest in front of. When the school of Koi’s swim away, Connor recoils, as if offended they had decided to leave him alone. Without meaning to, Hank feels his lips curve into a smile.

  


“Yes,” Hank finds himself agreeing, “I guess so.”

  


Martha follows his eyes, she catches a glimpse of Connor gently petting the Australian Shepherd before she turns to him with a knowing glint. “He told me he’s one of the most advanced models Cyberlife has built, but he’s rather innocent isn’t he?”

  


Hank hums.

  


“Like a child,” Martha says, only the slightest hint of hesitance in her voice. Hank meets her eyes. “Like a son.”

  


Hank knows what she’s asking him and perhaps it’s the same question he asks himself, like that night of the chase and the fight with Reed. And while he knows that walking the grey will be much easier for him down the road, he’s willing to risk that safety to find out what exactly living could be like. So he returns her unwavering gaze and nods. 

  


“Yeah. Like a son.”

\- 5 -

“God, this place fucking stinks. Hey, open up the window, will ya?”

  


“Okay,” Connor says, already moving towards the nearest window to dislodge it from its lock. With the fresh breeze filtering in, Hank finally feels his brain restart. 

  


The house is damp, both from the remnants of the storm last night and from the lack of air it is deprived of. It eerily reminds him of Ortiz’s house with the slash markings along the walls ratified by the torn wallpaper limply hanging onto the wall like leprosy. Hank steels himself and finds Ben among the other forensic staff they dispatched. 

  


Ben doesn’t even look at him when he approaches. “Glad you could make it.”

  


“Didn’t really have a choice.”

  


“Well. That sucks,” Ben says in a slow drawl before he beckons the two of them to come inside, “it’s a serial case, alright. Whoever’s been harming these androids, they’re collecting them.”

  


The difference, Hank realises, between human homicide cases and android homicide is the absence of fruit flies buzzing around the scene for the latter. He doesn’t know if it’s a detail he wants to remember, but he’s forced to recognise the rather silent and un-rankness of the house. 

  


There are about five androids lined horizontally in front of the chalky fireplace. Hank steps over one of their portable LED light, avoiding the ratty brown armchair, and squats with his hand on his knees over the bodies. 

  


Like the previous cases, all the androids are rendered bare in their white chassis. Unlike their previous case, however, these androids seem to be perfectly intact. 

  


Hank draws his eyes to their heads, all of them had their eyes opened, unblinking.

  


“Connor,” he says, waving a hand to motion him over. The android strides over, abandoning another yellow evidence note. “What’s wrong with them?”

  


The android is silent behind him, but Hank knows better. Connor’s mega processor of a brain is somehow always construing pieces of information lying hidden for the naked eye to see. When Hank looks back, he sees Connor’s LED circling from yellow to red. He waits for it to return to its normal cyan colour but it never comes. 

  


Connor blinks at the five androids, mouth agape. Hank furrows his brows, calling his name, but at the answering silence he pulls himself up with a strong push of his left knee.

  


Hank grips Connor’s shoulder. “What is it? Connor, for fuck’s sake, what is it?” 

  


The other officers seem to pause whatever it is they’re doing and turn to them, watching as Hank shakes Connor, almost pleading for an answer. 

  


There’s something tight in his chest, and he swallows it down when he slaps Connor’s face. “Wake up!” 

  


“They’re not off.”

  


“What?”

  


“These androids,” Connor stutters, finding Hank’s gaze in a frenzy, “they’re not off. They’re still online, they just… something’s making them not move but everything else in their system is fine. I—they’re screaming, Hank. Make it stop.”

  


Hank’s screaming at someone, most likely Ben, when Connor abruptly falls to his knees. He sinks down with the android and only flinches when both of Connor’s hands fly to his ears as he curls inwardly on himself.

  


“Connor? Con—someone fucking does something! Ben, the droids are messing with his signal, says they’re not off.”

  


Ben, thank fuck, has the decency to look as stricken as Hank feels. The man rushes over, crouching next to Hank to get a better look when Connor lets out a pained gasp.

  


“It’s a virus. A virus!” he yells, closing his eyes shut, “I need—it’s forcing me to shut down, Hank, don’t let it shut me down.”

  


Miller is the one true voice of reason, screaming, “Get him out of here!”

  


Hank hovers him for a moment before he forces Ben to help him lift Connor out of the house. The two of them grunt and wheeze as they drag the android out of the house and past the metal fence. Hank takes them past the cruisers to his car, draping him over the hood. 

  


“Con? Connor,” he hisses, pushing the android’s musty hair back. 

  


With his heart thundering in his chest, Hank gulps in a large intake of air, hand coming up to rub his temple. Ben’s there in an instant, a heavyweight on his back. But the only thing he registers is the constant reminder that Cyberlife is a ghost company and that Connor isn’t even sure he’ll be able to access the other RK800 vessels after he went rogue. If he dies, Hank shivers, it’ll be permanent. 

  


The night breeze tickles his ears and there’s only the distant chatter coming from the house. The android is still lying there, face pinched in pain, and Hank waits forever until the red on his temple dissolves into a muted yellow then, very slowly, a blue. 

  


He sighs in relief, finally breathing properly. 

  


It takes a while for Connor to process his surroundings but the second he’s aware, he’s rushing back towards the house. Hank manages to grip the hem of his jacket and yanks him back.

  


“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he shouts. 

  


Connor’s eyes flit from the furious twitch of Hank’s brow to the house and he wrenches the man’s hand free. “It’s a bomb, they’re set to go off in a minute, they—we need to get the other officers out of there!” 

  


Hank’s moving with him before he can even think about it, but he tells Connor to remain by the fence just in case the waves interfere with his own signals again and Connor growls. 

  


“No, lieutenant, I’m not letting you go in there without me!”

  


“Too fucking bad, kid,” Hank snaps, he shoves Connor to the nearest officer, who just happened to be Person. “Make sure he doesn’t leave.”

  


Person isn’t given enough time to reply because Hank’s already pulling Ben into the house and evacuating the area. Ben ventures deeper, pulling out the forensics from the kitchen and the bathroom while Hank ushers the newbie investigators in the living room to get out. Ben’s jogging towards him when he hears Connor shout for him outside. 

  


“Come on, Anderson,” Ben yells, and Hank throws one last glance before they sprint to the front yard. Hank’s barely making it past the gates when Connor runs to him, he’s about to tell Connor off when he hears a click then he’s being pushed to the ground and there’s a wave of heat that consumes him. 

  


Hank’s only barely conscious when the heat dies and he’s the first to push himself on his back, a deadweight thrown over him slowing the process. He takes a few deep breaths and hears the sirens blaring. The sky above him contorts itself into waves, swirling his vision until he feels himself being lifted. There’s a team fussing over him when he sees Ben face peer over and then his brain is firing.

  


“Ben,” he slurs, trying to lift his heavy arm but failing, “Ben. Con… where’s Connor?”

  


Even deluded, Hank is not one to be denied of anything. He yells, but his ears feel as though they are being blocked by cotton. “Ben!”

  


Exhausted, he lets the tiredness render him silent for a moment and he barely registers the throb in his abdomen. Lolling his head to the side, Hank can barely register another stretcher, but a stretcher nonetheless. Forcing himself to focus, his heart stops. 

  


“Connor!” 

  


The android is on a stretcher, but instead of being lifted into the vehicle like he is, they had him resting on the road while everyone is rushing around to attend to the officers. Hank tries to sit upright, but a strong hand resits him. 

  


“Connor, you need to,” he rasps, before someone is placing an oxygen mask on him, muffling his protest. Hank inches forward only to be stopped again. “My son, you have to help him, Connor!”

  


Hank feels the drowsiness seep into his circulation and bangs his fist to the side of the stretcher, shaking him slightly. When the corners of his vision begin to darken, an unbearable sense of loss seizes him. He turns his head as far as it can go once more and takes it in. 

  


Connor, abandoned on the ground, part of his face blown. There’s a tear by his jaw, leaving the white chassis to reveal the blue wires under, and the blue… so much blue. No, it wasn’t the amount of blue blood that scared him the most, it’s Connor’s LED. The circular thing that Hank had asked Connor to remove but had the android valiantly stating that it was a mark he wishes to not get rid of because he likes it, the one tell-tale sign of his son’s true feelings, was now black and empty. 

  


Hank barely feels the wetness trail down his cheek and as the unconscious finally pulls him under, he whispers one last prayer, hoping he didn’t have to wake up knowing how it feels to lose a second son. 

  


—  


Hank, if he’s being entirely honest, didn’t know what he expects. It certainly wasn’t this. 

  


The sun’s just about to set outside, Hank can tell because the window sill is casting a rather annoying bar of shadow across the top right-hand corner of his TV. It was the fucking game, too. 

  


There’s scuffling from outside before the jingle of keys and exactly one dog bark is heard. 

  


“It’s open,” Hank calls out, barely moving an inch from the couch. The door wheezes open and Sumo bounds to him. “Hey, boy.”

  


“I’m back.”

  


“Had fun?”

  


Connor closes the door and places the house keys carefully on the kitchen table before he opens the fridge and peeks in. Hank watches this with the barest hint of amusement, it seems that even deviant the android has a prioritised list of missions in his head. When he finds nothing he agrees with, the android’s usually tight lips curve into a frown. 

  


“What happened to the vegan meat I bought on Thursday?” he asks, eyes narrowing as he ignores Hank’s question. Hank rolls his eyes and goes back to his game.

  


“I ate it.”

  


Connor steps to his side and leans down just a tad. “Liar.”

  


“No, I’m serious. I ate it all.”

  


“No, Hank, I’m pretty sure you didn’t because you were by my side for the past two days working on the Warren case.”

  


“Fine, fine,” Hank grumbles, a hand finding Sumo’s ear to give it a good scratch. “Tina might’ve said she’s going vegan and I offered her the meat thing. Oh, come on, you didn’t actually expect me to eat that fucking thing, did you?”

  


Connor straightens himself up before he retreats to the kitchen, the sound of the opening cupboards the only tell-tale sign that he is there. Hank twists a little on the couch, but Sumo is laying perfectly still across his lap, and there isn’t much he could do now is there?

  


“Connor, come on. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I get it, you want me to eat healthy, but even you know that was a way out of my comfort zone.”

  


He receives no reply and Hank considers whether he should try again, but knowing how sulky the android can get, he decides to leave Connor be for the meantime. It's two years since the Uprising, seven months since Connor has his face blasted open--miraculously patched up by Markus and his raggedy revolution group-- by that serial android killer Warren, fucking bastard finally got what he was in for in jail time, and Hank wishes there was some way he could look out for Connor as much as the android does for him. Connor, as always, is adamant about seeing to his needs first before his own and Hank just wants that to change, somehow. The android grows skittish around him sometimes and Hank--God, he really wishes there was some form of mental therapy the androids can go through because he isn't cut out for any of this emotional shit. 

Not anymore. 

But he wants to. 

  


The game is as uneventful an off-season game could be. Hank gazes at the TV sluggishly, wishing for Connor’s usual monotone banter as he cooks. But the android keeps his lips shut, making no call towards Sumo either. Hank grunts, crossing his arms. Just how long will the kid brood?

  


Around six-thirty, the stove is switched off and there’s scraping before Hank hears the sink grunt. The couch dips on the other side and Hank turns to see Connor sit, a plate complete with a spoon and fork, balancing precariously on the palm of his hand. He offers it to Hank mutedly. 

  


“Thank you, son,” he says, earnestly hoping that Connor can just resume their normal evening programme instead of this cold shoulder game that reminds him too much of a pissed-off teenager. 

  


Just when he thinks he’ll be going to bed in silence, Connor replies. “You’re welcome,” he says, then, “Dad.”

  


Hank freezes. The plate wobbling slightly at the sudden stop.

  


He doesn’t dare look at Connor just in case his eyes are as red as they feel, burning right at the back and making his vision weirdly blurry. Hank coughs, wishing whatever that is stuck in his throat gets released. 

  


“Are you okay?” Connor asks concern dripping from his tone. Hank waves a hand but doesn’t speak. 

  


He stares at the TV and curses inwardly when he can see their reflections on the screen are just as odd as he feels. There’s another fucking pause before Connor talks again.

  


“Hank? I’m sorry, was that not welcomed? I thought I had read…”

  


“No,” Hank cuts him off, then scratching the nape of his neck sheepishly, “I was just surprised. That’s all.”

  


“But is it okay?”

  


“What is?”

  


Connor chews on his lip momentarily before he responds. “That I called you… as though you are my father.”

  


“Jesus, kid, don’t talk like that,” Hank groans, rubbing his temple. “Just say, dad. It’s fine.”

  


“Dad. Dad? Dad…”

  


“Go nuts.”

  


“Dad!” Connor exclaims with renewed energy, Hank’s full out laughing at him but Connor pays him no attention. The android bends forwards so he’s eye-to-eye with St Bernard and pets him enthusiastically. “You hear that, Sumo? I have a dad now.”

  


Hank looks down at him, unaware of the soft smile on his face, and reaches out to pat his head. “You’ve already had me for a while, kid.”

  


Connor’s eyes are shiny when they look up and Hank’s almost sure the weird shake of his mouth means that he was trying to smile. “Does that mean I get your surname? Officially? On my card?”

  


“Whatever you want,” Hank huffs with a tinge of laughter. Connor rises to his feet and squeezes his hands into fists by his side. 

  


“Connor Anderson,” he says.

  


Hank’s fingers are absentmindedly roaming the vast expanse of Sumo’s coat when he nods. Connor’s eyes are brighter than he ever sees them, mouth pulled just a tiny bit farther, and his brows less than an inch higher. 

  


Hank hums. “Cole would’ve loved a younger brother.”

  


Connor’s mood isn’t entirely dampened, but he sees the way the droid’s shoulder falls just a fraction before they rise back up again. 

  


“I would have liked to have an older brother, too,” Connor says. Hank doesn’t realise the tears that stream down his face until the droid hands him a tissue. Hank barely manages to say thanks when Connor falls like a heap into the couch and smiles dopily until the next morning, driving to the precinct to get his name changed officially in the system. 

  


When Fowler drops by and hands him the new nameplate, Connor shakes his hand with a grin before he empties the holder and slides the new slate in. Hank goes around his own desk and admires it. 

  


“What do you think?” Connor asks, fidgeting with his hands on his lap. 

  


“Detective Connor Anderson,” he reads aloud, reaching for the plate, “it does have a nice ring to it.”

  


And Hank didn’t expect this, the giddiness that swells in him whenever he sees Connor’s terminal flash his new surname whenever he’s logged off or the seven letters printed next to Connor on the boy’s badge, but he doesn’t think it’s all that bad. Better start practising his old dad jokes again, he’s sure he kept a list of them in his nightstand somewhere…

  


  



End file.
